


feels like home

by lye_kisses



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, That's it, except they don't have kids because I didn't feel like writing them, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29627424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lye_kisses/pseuds/lye_kisses
Summary: Patrick takes pride in the fact that he’s started getting up early. Well, okay, not early , by average human standards. The sun is definitely shining bright through the curtains by the time Patrick rolls out of bed. But it’s before noon at least, and McDonald’s is probably still serving breakfast, so Patrick counts it as a win.-------Just some domestic Peterick fluff!
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	feels like home

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote like 90% of this in October and just..... didn't finish it until now. If you're looking for a plot-there's not one. There's not even porn (but absence makes the dick grow harder or however that saying goes right??). But if you're looking for modern day escapist domestic fluff then you are probably in the right place!  
> Also I dunno if this warrants a warning but there are VERY brief mentions of pw mental health issues so I am mentioning it here just to be safe!!!

Patrick takes pride in the fact that he’s started getting up early. Well, okay, not _early_ , by average human standards. The sun is definitely shining bright through the curtains by the time Patrick rolls out of bed. But it’s before _noon_ at least, and McDonald’s is probably still serving breakfast, so Patrick counts it as a win. 

Pete is already up and presumably downstairs, of course. It’s not unusual; he and Patrick have never quite managed to match their sleep schedules, even after so many years spent in each other’s pockets. Patrick doesn’t remember him ever coming to bed last night though, which isn’t a great sign. Granted Patrick’s not exactly a light sleeper, he wouldn’t wake up from Pete slipping into bed, but he usually leaves a trail of detritus as evidence he’s been there. 

Patrick finds him in the kitchen, sitting on a stool at the island and scrolling Twitter. The modern day equivalent of reading the newspaper. 

“Morning,” Patrick says, wrapping his arms around Pete’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to his neck, squinting at Pete’s phone screen to see what’s going on in the world. Nothing good. Same as always.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” Pete smiles, twisting around to peck Patrick on the cheek. “Want a sip?” He holds up a nearly empty plastic cup of milky brown liquid Patrick assumes was an iced latte, but now looks to be mostly ice. 

Patrick scrunches his nose in disgust. “No thanks.” He’ll never understand Pete’s insistence on going out for coffee, especially when they have practically every coffee related appliance known to man at their disposal. He’s pretty sure Pete just likes the routine, which makes sense on a fundamental level, but this particular daily trek into town just to stand in line for something he could make at home is one Patrick can’t comprehend. 

Pete laughs. “Didn’t think so.” He takes a long, purposefully obnoxious slurp of the dregs of his latte, just to make Patrick roll his eyes. “Thought you might want this though,” he adds, reaching over to procure a small paper bag from next to him, waving it in front of Patrick’s face. 

Patrick snatches it with childish glee. He’ll never complain about Pete and his habits when he gets breakfast treats out of it. He opens the bag to find a freshly baked croissant with a single bite taken out of it. “Really?” Patrick doesn’t need to consult the DNA database to know who committed this heinous crime.

“Delivery fee,” Pete replies with a wicked grin. 

“Thanks babe,” Patrick says dryly, then leans over to kiss Pete on the lips, soft and sweet. “There’s your tip.”

“I was hoping for your other tip, if you catch my drift” Pete says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that’s supposed to be sexy, but mostly just looks like he’s having a muscle spasm. Tragically, Patrick has been conditioned by years of exposure to think it’s kind of sexy anyway. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick replies as he crosses the kitchen to grab a plate and a mug to satisfy his own caffeine addiction. “I’m gonna need a whole baker’s dozen if you want _that_ tip.”

Pete laughs, loud and braying and morning music to Patrick’s ears. “You say that like I won’t do it.”

“No, I say it because I know you will.” Patrick says, searching through their extensive collection of coffee beans and tea bags to choose today’s fix. “I want the box of _unbitten_ croissants I deserve.”

“So demanding,” Pete says with unmistakable fondness. 

Patrick is a few sips into his perfectly acceptable homemade cup of coffee when he remembers his earlier concerns. “Hey,” he says softly. “Did you sleep last night?”

Pete shrugs lightly. “Not really.” So not at all. Patrick tries not to frown too blatantly. He’s aware the chronic insomnia is something Pete has always dealt with, but it’s hard not to worry that it might be indicative of a bigger issue.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Pete _is_ a grownup, one who’s spent many years figuring out how to manage his highs and lows, and is honestly pretty good at it these days. He knows when to call his therapist for an extra appointment, and talk to his psychiatrist about adjusting his meds, and he always _always_ lets Patrick know when he’s feeling particularly bad. It’s just sometimes difficult for Patrick to shake the memories of Pete locking himself in the bathroom with the lights off for hours at a time, or Pete manic and breaking bones any lacking any sense of self preservation, or the sickly sterile scent of a hospital waiting room in the suburbs of Chicago, no matter how much more stable Pete’s moods have been in recent years.

“Are you going to play tennis today?” Patrick asks, instead of letting his anxiety take over. It’s another one of Pete’s routines that Patrick does not partake in (due to his obvious lack of athleticism), but it’s one of the best for getting Pete out of his head and burning off some of his nervous energy, and he’s almost unfairly good at it. Plus Patrick would be lying if he pretended Pete didn’t look damn good doing it too. 

“Nah,” Pete says, sounding a little down about it. “Zach’s out of town so...” he trails off, then shrugs again. “No doubles for me.”

“What are you going to do then?” 

“I dunno,” Pete replies. “Play with the dogs in the backyard maybe, and- oh! I was thinking about going to the garden center to get a new trellis for the tomatoes.”

“That’s a good idea,” Patrick says. “Please don’t come home with five more plants I have to attempt to keep alive next time you’re gone for the weekend.” 

“No promises,” Pete says teasingly. “Unless...perhaps if I had a handsome young chaperone to accompany me I’d be able to resist my horticultural vices “

“Hmm,” Patrick says, considering the option. He’s not really a fan of running errands like Pete is. “Ask me again later.”

“Okay Magic 8 Ball. What’s on _your_ agenda?”

Patrick’s answer is embarrassingly predictable, or at least it would be if he felt any shame towards his greatest guiding force. “Music.” Music until he can’t music anymore. Which really is out of the realm of possibility for Patrick, so more like music until his body tells him it’s time for his next meal, and then back to the music thing again. “I was going to mess around with some instrumental stuff.” He doesn’t have any pressing deadlines coming up, but he’s been on a few emails about scoring another short film, and he’s always got ideas bouncing around.

Pete perks up. “Is there a P Stump violin concerto in my near future?”

“Don’t count on it.” Patrick says with a chipper smile. He’s been having a lot of fun with his new violin lately, but he’s not at the level Pete seems to think he is. 

“Boo,” Pete pouts. “You’re no fun today, Super 8.” 

“Oh I’ll show you fun, Motel 6,” Patrick replies, walking back around the island to poke a finger into the ticklish spot on Pete’s side as retribution for the shitty motel nickname. Almost as bad as Lunchbox. “Seriously though, check in with me before you leave. I might want to tag along.”

“Sure thing, Howard Johnson.” Pete says, with an air of skepticism. 

“Ew,” Patrick says, running his hand through his hair. “That’s the worst one. Makes me feel even more bald.”

“Was Howard Johnson bald?” Pete asks, cocking his head to the side like one of their dogs hearing the word “outside”. 

“I don’t know. But he _sounds_ bald. I _feel_ bald.” 

“You’re not bald.” Pete stands up, plants a kiss on the top of Patrick’s head like he does when he wants to laud the -if he’s being generous- inch and a half height difference. “Not even a little.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Rapunzel,” Patrick says, twirling a finger into a face-framing strand of Pete’s ridiculously long hair. Patrick can’t lie though. He’s into it. Great for pulling. 

Pete beams, not unlike Disney royalty, then leans in to give Patrick a coffee breath kiss. Not that Patrick’s going to complain. After years of touring, he’s definitely had worse tastes in his mouth. 

It’s probably also the years of touring that make a lazy morning makeout in the kitchen so appealing. Way more luxurious than stealing kisses in the back rooms of buses and behind parking lot port-a-potties. Patrick is willing to push back everything on his extremely tight schedule to do this all day.

He’s pretty sure Pete is willing too, judging by the sound he makes when Patrick kisses back. Of course, they’re interrupted by the sound of Pete’s phone buzzing against the countertop. 

“Phone’s ringing,” Patrick says, just to state the obvious. 

Pete groans. Patrick can relate. The less unnecessary human interaction, the better. “Probably just CVS,” then glances over to check anyways. “Oh hey, that’s my jewelry guy,” he continues, a sentence that reminds Patrick that Pete Wentz truly never stops spinning plates. “I’m gonna take this.” He presses a quick smooch to the corner of Patrick’s mouth before grabbing his phone and bounding off to the other side of the house to answer. Patrick can’t even be disappointed. He loves that Pete bleeds passion into every venture he undertakes.

Patrick spends a little longer dallying in the kitchen before he heads into the spare bedroom they converted into a studio when they moved into this house. Patrick has never been heavily into interior design, he let Pete pick out most of the furnishing in the rest of the house with minimal input, but the studio is the one room Patrick insisted on having complete creative control over. It’s his perfect little sanctuary: comfy and cozy and completely devoted to displaying all his instruments and equipment. 

He does end up playing with his violin for a bit, practicing the basics. He entertains the idea of perfecting Hot Cross Buns and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to play for Pete, like a fourth grade recital. Pete would get a kick out of it for sure. 

Patrick has to put down the violin when his shoulder starts hurting (curse his ancient joints and bones). It’s not a loss though, because he picks up his acoustic instead and strums for a while, comes up with a melody he likes so much he decides to track it in GarageBand. It’s rough, but it’s honestly almost too good to keep solely instrumental, he’s considering trawling through the last dump of lyrics Pete gave him when-

“Babe?” 

Patrick spins around in his chair to find Pete leaning in the door frame. He’s wearing a pullover sweatshirt despite the fact that it’s not even L.A. cold outside, hair pulled back into a messy bun and wearing Patrick’s favorite baseball cap over it. He’d be annoyed if the sight of Pete wearing his clothes didn’t fill him with a surge of possessive pride. 

“Damn.” Pete continues, twirling his key fob around his finger. “Missed the show.” He tilts his head toward the violin that Patrick left out of its case, and his guitar next to it. 

“You didn’t miss much,” Patrick replies. He’ll hold off on showing the new melody to Pete until it’s slightly more polished. 

“I know you’re lying,” Pete says. “Because every time you pick up an instrument it’s worth hearing. I’ll let it slide right now because I’m about to leave, but next time...” He points a finger at Patrick to get his message across. “Anyways, I’ll be back in like an hour, hour and a half if there’s traffic.” As if there’s ever _not_ traffic. 

“I’ll come, if you can wait for me to put real pants on.”

“Really?” Pete says, sounding unreasonably giddy. “You actually want to come out with me?” Patrick is willing to reconsider his general stance on leaving the house if agreeing to go out makes Pete look this damn cute. 

“Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t come home with the entire store.”

They don’t come home with the entire store, but they get the trellis, and a tiny sapling of a lemon tree that Pete squealed over, and a locally crafted artisan ceramic pot that Patrick will admit is beautifully designed, though he can’t say he’s “drawn to its energy” like Pete had been. 

And also a 75 pound bag of organic garden soil that has somehow become Patrick’s responsibility to lug out to the backyard. 

“Jesus fuck,” Patrick grunts, not so carefully letting the soil drop to the ground. “That’s fucking heavy.”

“That was hot,” Pete says, still cradling his baby tree in its featherlight plastic container. 

“What?” Patrick says, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, is he really so out of shape that carrying fucking _dirt_ has reduced him to a panting mess?

“You carrying that all the way out here. Super hot.” 

“Are you teasing me?” Patrick asks, as Pete drags his soil closer to their ever-expanding garden. 

“No! Babe seriously,” Pete says, though Patrick is still skeptical that it’s not a joke. “That was sexy. You’ve got this like, strong masculine aura going on right now, I dunno. I think you unlocked something primal in me.” 

“Okay, well next time can we trade off so _you_ can give off the masculine aura, because carrying that sucked.”

“I mean sure, but I don’t know if it’ll have the same effect. You have your whole... _thing_.” Pete says, making a vague hand gesture. “You know?” What a master wordsmith.

“Not really,” Patrick says, then promptly changes the subject so he doesn’t have to listen to Pete talk about his apparent _thing_. This isn’t a John Carpenter flick. “Do you need any help with the plants?”

“No, I’m good.” Pete says, taking stock of his area. “You can go back inside if you want.”

Patrick could, but it’s a nice day. They’re finally out of that awful heatwave. He’s sort of enjoying Pete’s presence. “Might sit out here for a while, if that won’t mess up your garden mojo.”

Pete’s answering grin is tender and telling. 

Patrick lays out on one of the patio loungers while Pete gets to work. Honestly, he spends half his time playing Bejeweled on his phone, because there’s only so much digging and replanting and leaf trimming he can watch before he needs something else to occupy his brain. He likes to observe Pete in his element though, completely at peace and chatting with the zucchini in between chatting with Patrick. 

Pete is usually the one snapping sneaky candids of Patrick when he’s off in his own world, but Patrick seizes the opportunity to take a few of his own, just to capture the moment. If a couple of them are of Pete with his back turned, leaning over a strawberry plant, well. It’s not like he’s going to post them on Instagram. 

“I figured it out,” Pete says, a while later. He’s laying on the grass a few feet away from Patrick and staring up at the sky, even though there’s a perfectly comfortable chair right next to him, for reasons Patrick can’t explain other than: he’s Pete Wentz. 

“Figured what out?” Patrick’s unsure if he spaced out and missed something, or if Pete is just sharing one of the parts of his mind Patrick can’t read yet.

“Your perfect _sport_ , Patrick, to show off your _upper body_ _strength_.” Definitely not privy to whatever this train of thought is. He’s not sure he likes where it’s going. 

“My _sport_?”

“Yes, Patrick- just listen,” Pete says, shifting to rest his head on his forearm. “You know that sport that’s like...big dudes throwing logs. It’s like Scottish. Highland Games.”

“Big dudes...throwing logs?” Patrick sort of knows what he’s talking about. He can vaguely recall seeing it in a sports documentary Pete put on that Patrick had admittedly mostly snoozed through. “ _That’s_ my sport?”

“Caber toss!” Pete says, waving his phone at Patrick before dropping it into the center of his chest, letting his free hand rest low on his belly. “You’d be great at it. And you would be so hot in the kilt, like I’d pay top dollar.”

“I think you pull off the kilt look better. Remember that Victoria’s Secret thing we did with Taylor?” Patrick certainly remembers that day. He’s utterly devoted to Pete, but if one of those models had been interested, well. He’d ask if Pete could come along for the ride. 

Pete chuckles, low and dark. “You _would_ like that, wouldn’t you?” There’s a devious glimmer in his eyes. “Me in a little black leather number, you could bend me over whatever you want...” He sighs wistfully, sliding his hand up under his shirt. 

Patrick files that idea in his spank bank under “Things They Should Definitely Try”. Sometimes Pete really does know Patrick better than he knows himself.

Pete sits up and stretches his arms over his head, makes a noise that Patrick wishes he was pulling out of him. He glows golden in the late afternoon sun. “Babe?”

“Yeah?” Patrick hopes he’s going to announce his intent to crawl into his lap, or even better, into their bed. 

“You want dinner?”

Well. He could eat. 

They go inside, Pete with an armful of basil from the plant that had been one of the first things to really take off in the garden. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pete says, setting his garden haul down next to the sink before opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine. “I’m going to run upstairs and jump in the shower while my gorgeous redhead opens this gorgeous red and pours us both a glass.”

“You have a gorgeous redhead?” Patrick says, looking behind him in jest. “Do we have a secret basement you’ve been locking her in?”   
“Ha ha,” Pete deadpans. “You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

“Not a redhead though,” Patrick chimes back. 

“I’ve seen the carpet babe, you can’t argue with me on this one.” 

Patrick will concede this once, because Pete _has_ spent a lot of time with his face in Patrick’s crotch. “Anyways,” Pete continues. “When I come back downstairs I’m making you dinner.”

“Don’t have too much fun in there without me,” Patrick says. 

“Oh don’t worry, if I was going to take a shower for fun you’d know about it,” Pete says with a devilish grin, giving Patrick’s ass a quick squeeze before heading out of the kitchen.

Patrick uses the time Pete is upstairs to feed the dogs their own dinner, and washes the basil, because even though Pete insists it’s pesticide free and therefore safe to eat straight out of the yard, one time Patrick nearly munched on a spider in his salad and he’s still a little traumatized. 

By the time Pete bounds back into the kitchen, still damp and wearing an old, oversized t-shirt that might have been Patrick’s years ago but has since migrated into Pete’s rotation, Patrick is just popping out the cork of the Napa Valley Cabernet. 

“Did it really take you twenty minutes to open that? I know you’re a whiskey man but...” he says, taking a sip of the wine Patrick pours him. 

“I do my chores before getting drunk, thank you very much.” Patrick replies, taking a drink from his own glass. 

“Cooking for you is never a chore, dearly beloved,” Pete says, corny as ever in the same way that made Patrick fall for him nearly twenty years ago. “And by the way, get MasterChef on speed dial, because this one is going to be a fucking winner.” 

“Sure, but I’ve got Kitchen Nightmares on line 2.”

“You wound me baby, you really do,” Pete says, though he’s smiling. 

Patrick has to give Pete credit where credit is due: he has been _trying._ When he and Pete first moved in together all those years ago, both of their mothers had shared a knowing look and joked that they were about to spend the rest of their lives eating cereal and takeout. And sure, maybe their moms were right, and they spent a few years as disciples of the Cookie Crisp wolf and their local Chinese buffet. Who doesn’t?

Lately though, especially over the last few months, Pete has taken on the challenge of learning to cook like a well-adjusted, non-rockstar adult. Honestly he’s not terrible, and he’s definitely improved a ton since he started this journey, with only a few disasters that led to ordering pizza after the first bite. He’s above Patrick’s skill level now, that’s for sure. 

Tonight’s recipe is a pasta dish with pesto ( _without_ pine nuts, because Pete thinks they’re an affront to his taste buds) using the fresh basil, with tomatoes from the garden and mushrooms that Patrick hopes to god Pete didn’t forage in the backyard sautéed and thrown on top. Pete does most of the work, spinning around the kitchen with only slightly more precision and grace than he does on stage. Patrick stays out of his way and sips his wine, because this is Pete’s thing and he doesn’t want to start micromanaging like he tends to when they’re collaborating on a project. He’s working on it. 

It doesn’t take long for the pasta to be finished. Patrick is impressed by how smoothly Pete executed everything. Not a single burnt vegetable or finger in sight. 

They sit down at the counter to eat- they’ve graduated from eating every meal on the couch in front of the TV, but Patrick is pretty sure they’ve served dinner in the actual dining room on exactly two occasions. They’re sure not about to start now. 

“Babe,” Patrick says around a mouthful of pasta. He gave up on performing basic etiquette around Pete about thirty seconds into meeting him, and he’s sure not about to start now. “This is seriously really good.”

Pete shrugs, almost sheepish. “I _did_ wine you first.”

“Shut up,” Patrick replies, taking another hefty bite. “You know I’d tell you if it actually sucked.”

Pete snorts. “True, you’ve never been shy about me sucking.”

“I’m a big fan, actually,” Patrick deadpans. 

Pete laughs, in that head thrown back, full body kind of way that Patrick would think is an exaggeration if he didn’t know Pete just... finds him that funny. 

They spend the rest of dinner chatting about their respective endeavors. Patrick has never particularly cared about the merits of gold fill vs gold plated jewelry and how subtle differences in chain thickness can make or break a piece, but he doesn’t even have to feign interest when Pete’s telling him about the samples he finally gets to pick up next week. He might even agree to wear one when Pete brings them home. Can’t be any worse than all the Clandestine. 

After they clean up from dinner (Patrick does the dishes, because he’s not a total asshole), they move from the kitchen into the living room to get started on their third favorite activity, right after writing songs and sex: pointless arguing. 

“You know what? Fuck you,” Patrick says. He’s not pulling his punches with this one. Pete has simply gone too far. “Literally fuck you.”

“Actually-no!” Patrick continues, fueled by his rage. “We’re never fucking again. You have completely fucking obliterated my desire to fuck, that’s how fucking mad I am.”

“You’re just mad because you know I’m right,” Pete replies, too smug for Patrick’s taste.

“I’m mad because you’re so wrong, it’s fucking crazy. Like, okay, I’m willing to accept that you think Alien 3 is better than Aliens. I can believe that’s your truth. But saying Terminator Genisys is the best in the _series_?” Patrick shakes his head in disappointment. “Despicable. Absolutely despicable. Even the fucking Christian Bale one is better than that shit, and you know it.” 

“I dunno Patrick,” Pete says. “I think I just have better taste than you.”

“ _I_ think you’re just trying to piss me off.” Patrick says, coming to the sudden realization. 

“I would never do such a thing,” Pete says, mouth turned up at the corners in a way that suggests he would _definitely_ do such a thing. There is _historical precedence_ that he would do such a thing. “However,” Pete continues, “I could possibly be convinced of my apparently wrong opinion if we have a Terminator movie marathon?” 

“Was this just a ploy? To watch all the Terminators?” Patrick should’ve known he was being baited. 

“Of course not!” Pete replies. “But you know...if you want to we can start with the first one and work our way up to the _best_.”

“You know you could’ve just asked, asshole,” Patrick grumbles, fumbling around for the remote so he can search for the first movie on AppleTV. “Like I’d say no.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” Pete says with a grin. Patrick wants to be mad at that too, but Pete is giving him major heart eyes. It’s nearly impossible to stay angry when you’re on the receiving end of unbridled Wentzian affection. 

He _can_ stay on the other side of the couch though, at least until the end of the movie. Pete gets up to use the bathroom, so Patrick goes to take out the dogs, lets them spend a few minutes getting their night time energy out. When he gets back, Pete is stretched out on his back, head resting a few inches away from Patrick’s designated spot. “Ready for T2 when you are.”

“Ready for _you_ to see it’s the best one,” Patrick replies, sitting back down and kicking his feet up on the ottoman. 

“So I know your sex drive is totally dead now,” Pete says, flipping onto his belly and scooting ever so closer to Patrick. “But I was wondering if maybe I could rest my head in your lap. In a completely platonic way of course.”

“Well,” Patrick replies, the hint of a smile in his voice betraying him. “As long as it’s platonic.”  
Pete grins and immediately plops his head onto Patrick’s thigh, pressing a quick kiss to the crease before he turns back toward the movie. “Just wanted to use you as a pillow.”

“Your nonsexual pillow person,” Patrick says agreeably. “What a dream come true.”

They barely make it through the opening scene before Pete shifts to look up at Patrick with wide puppy eyes that rival their actual dogs when they’re begging for treats. Patrick thinks the dogs might be more respectable, because at least they aren’t capable of human language. Pete _chooses_ to communicate using the same tactics as baby animals and sad Victorian orphan boys.  
“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick mutters. His mother was right. Men only want one thing. “I know why you’re here.” 

He sinks his fingers into Pete’s hair at the roots, alternating between gently running his fingers through the strands and lightly scratching at his scalp. Pete sighs, and all the anxious tension he so often hides behind a charismatic smile melts away. Patrick has to admit, this is relaxing for him too. It gives Patrick something to do with his hands so he can focus on the movie- and subsequently prove to Pete that his taste is objectively better in every way. 

“See?” Patrick says, when the T2 credits roll. “Clearly the superior film.”

When Pete doesn’t respond, Patrick glances down to find him fast asleep, snoozing softly on his lap. He should’ve realized when his jokey quips slowed down to a halt half an hour ago.

Honestly though, Patrick is happy to see it. Pete could always use the rest. 

Patrick spends a solid forty-five minutes perusing Netflix and adding shows to their “To Watch” list -like someday they’ll decide to watch Designated Survivor instead of just putting on Lost Boys for the hundredth time to get their Kiefer Sutherland fix- before he decides the amount of complaining Pete will do in the morning over the ache in his neck will probably be worse than the amount he’ll gripe over being woken up right now. 

“Peter,” Patrick sing-songs, running a careful thumb down Pete’s cheek. He always saves the reverse nickname for the softest, sleepiest moments they share. It’s when the name seems to suit Pete the most. 

It takes a minute of gentle prodding before Pete opens his eyes with an acknowledging grunt, shifting his head to reveal the damp spot he left on Patrick’s thigh. That he finds the puddle of drool endearing and not gross is a real testament to how much he loves Pete. 

“Come on,” Patrick says, stroking over Pete’s face again, just because he can’t resist. “Bedtime for all boys whose names start with the letter P.” 

Pete groans, then rolls over to look up at Patrick. “You should carry me.” He’s mostly kidding, Patrick knows, but there’s that hint of boyish earnestness in his eyes that never fails to make his heart ache. 

“I know you think I have superhero strength for some reason, but I’m going to need at least a year at the gym before I could even get you off the couch, let alone upstairs.” 

Pete chuckles to himself as he sits up, like he’s got a secret joke he’s not going to share with the class. “You sell yourself so short sometimes, you know that?”

Patrick resists the urge to snark back “ _I am short”_ , instead settles on “Pretty lucky I have you then.” It’s supposed to be sarcastic, but it lands like a truth.

Pete’s smile could light up the night sky. “We’re both lucky.” Patrick can’t argue with that, not even a little. 

Pete stands up first and reaches out a hand to Patrick to help him up off the couch, then refuses to let go while Patrick turns off the TV, and all the lights, and makes sure the dogs are asleep where they belong. Patrick supposes it’s an okay compromise. They shuffle upstairs hand in hand, only breaking apart when Pete moves to take off his shirt before they climb into bed together. Patrick can’t argue with that either. 

They curl up face to face under the covers. Patrick knows it won’t last the whole night; Pete moves around in his sleep, and Patrick sweats as much as he does during a show if they stay on top of each other for more than an hour or two, but that just makes him cherish these moments even more.

“Hey,” Patrick says, as Pete nuzzles into his shoulder. “Thanks.” Patrick isn’t really sure why he’s thanking him, but he knows he has to say it. Maybe for getting him out of the house, or for cooking dinner, or maybe just because he exists. 

“I love you,” Pete says in lieu of “you’re welcome”, with a sureness like he knows exactly what Patrick is thanking him for. He probably does. If there’s such a thing as soulmates, Pete is certainly his. 

“Love you too,” Patrick whispers, pressing his lips to Pete’s forehead. 

“I know you do baby,” Pete murmurs, breathing steadying as he falls back to sleep again. Patrick hopes that’s a sign of more good days to come. 

As he starts to drift off, Patrick decides he’s going to wake up early and make Pete breakfast, or maybe just wake him up with a blowjob. Or maybe neither, because he’s never going to be a morning person.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> one time when we were like idk 12 me and my bestie went to the US Highland games and saw people do the caber toss and honestly it has really stuck with me to this day....ANYWAYS thanks for reading this far!! I hope you're having a good one and if not I hope tomorrow is better. alright see you next time I post a fic in a year and a half...or longer...  
> P.S. thanks Hanna and Rhi for always reading my fics even though you have real lives xoxo


End file.
